Set Phasers To Stun
by peyote-angels
Summary: It's just... me and Jim didn't get along and I didn't want it to be like that again." Set in season three after "Initiation." Ryan/Dwight friendship.


**Title: Set Phasers to Stun.  
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**Summary: "It's just... Jim and I didn't get along and I didn't want that to happen again." Ryan gives Dwight a shot at being friends.**

**Authors note: ****Set after "Initiation" from season three. It's in Ryan's point of view. Decided to do a sweet, light one shot instead of my usual darker writings. It is NOT slash, just friendship. It's sweet and I think I managed to keep them both in character. It's pretty short. Feedback would be nice. Be sure to check out my current Ryan fic "The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot." **

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The break room's empty and smells like Lysol because Angela just went on a cleaning rampage. I drop onto a chair, resting my forehead against the cool tabletop, my eyes falling shut. It's only 12:30 in the afternoon and I'm exhausted. My fingers shake slightly, massaging against my temple. It feels good to no longer be a temp. I think I'd like it better if I could actually make a sale. It doesn't help that Dwight manages to close at least three deals an hour. I don't usually look forward to calling people up so I just put it off, playing solitaire instead. I remember Jim doing that a lot. Must be something about that chair.

The break room door opens and Dwight saunters in. "Hey, Ryan," he drawls, pulling the refrigerator door open. I nod, watching him for a moment. Ever since our crazy "sales call" last week, he'd been decent towards me. Usually he was glaring at me because Michael would be following me around, or calling me the temp and messing up my hair. I felt a little bad after I flipped out on him at his farm. I mean, I totally had every right. That was freaking crazy. But then again, so is Dwight. I remember that Jim was always pranking him. I rub the back of my neck, sitting up and fixing a terse smile on my mouth.

"What's going on, Dwight?" I ask. He straightens up, shutting the fridge door, a water bottle in hand. Shrugging, he says, "Nothing. Thirsty." He looks at me a moment before fiercely cracking the lid from the bottle, draining most of it. I shift slightly in my seat. "Er, right…" I watch as he wipes his mouth, tossing the water bottle on the counter. "So Ryan," he says, pulling the chair next to me out and sitting on it backwards, "I noticed you didn't get the Henderson sale." I flush, looking at my hands. "Ah no, I didn't. I'll get the next one though." I glance at Dwight.

"Doubt it," he sneers, resting his elbows on the table, bringing his face a little too close to mine. I edge back slightly. "I can help you, though," he breathes, his face serious, "give you tips, show you how to win clients." I clear my throat. "Um, it's all right. I'm good." But he narrows his eyes at me. "No, you're terrible. I'm good." Sighing, I glance away, as if looking for the camera. "Ryan, you have nothing to loose. Let. Me. Help. You." He shoves his finger in my chest after every word.

I consider, rubbing my forehead. "Fine," I say after a minute, "all right. We can have lunch. But that's all. No initiation or farms or Mose. Clear?" He nods, his face serious but somewhat hopeful and I hate the guilt I feel. "All right," I mutter again, "Let's go."

* * *

20 minutes later we're sitting in the back of an Olive Garden. I'm picking at a salad while Dwight slurps his spaghetti and I begin to think that maybe this was a bad idea. But he has sales reports and other folders spread out in front of us and he's explaining things to me that I never really considered but I'm sure he or Michael had told me before. I really should start listening to other people more.

Dwight sighs, closing a notebook full of notes on sale techniques he had collected over the years. "So," he says, wiping his mouth of spaghetti sauce, "how are you feeling?" I shrug. "Better. I've figured out that I probably shouldn't sound so snotty towards potential customers." He nods. "Yes, that's right. And maybe not towards your peers either?" His eyebrow is raised and I look at him for a moment. "Yeah. Good advice."

He finishes his food, stretching his arms over his head. "Well, let's get going then," he says somewhat cheerfully, beginning to pick up papers. I pay the check and we leave.

In the car, I push the radio on, turning the music up. "What is this?" Dwight asks as I pull out of the parking lot. "Um, Taking Back Sunday." He scoffs, but doesn't say anything. I begin to take the highway toward Dunder Mifflin but he points me in another direction. "We're making a quick stop," he says quickly and I tense up. "No. I said just lunch," I protest, beginning to turn once more on the highway. "Ryan," he says, placing a hand on the steering wheel, "you are driving. You can continue back to the office. But, if you want to advance your career as a salesman, I would suggest taking my direction right now."

I let out a frustrated breath and turn my blinker on, turning in the opposite direction. Dwight leans back against his seat, a satisfied look on his face.

* * *

After 25 minutes of driving around Scranton, Dwight finally points me into a business centre I'm unfamiliar with at first. "Park right over there," he says and I pull up to a building, all ready groaning. "The Henderson account? I lost this deal, Dwight!" He looks at me, a steady determination on his face. "And we're here to get it back. Use what I taught you, grasshopper," he says quietly. "What did I tell you about calling me grasshopper?"

He fidgets. "Sorry. Ryan, you can do this! I know you can. You're ready." I press my forehead against the steering wheel. I can go in there, loose the rest of my dignity. Or I can drive back to Dunder Mifflin and put up with Dwight's irritated scoffs. "Dammit, Dwight," I mutter, yanking my keys out of the ignition and pushing my car door open. Dwight beams, handing me my brief case and I only glare.

The air conditioning in the building gives me chills but that could also be from nerves. "OK. I'll go get you in with manager. Stay here and prep," he says, and I nod, dropping down on a chair while he marches up to the secretary's desk. I grip my briefcase, my hands sweating slightly. What am I doing here? I should just ditch Dwight, like he did to me. But a moment later, Dwight hisses me over and I have no choice but to follow him and the secretary back to the offices.

Mr. Brant, the manager, seems impatient to see me. I shake his hand, giving him what I hope is a professionally confident smile. I glance around to find Dwight but he's gone and I'm going to kill him if I don't vomit first. "Mr. Brant," I begin, sitting down and making eye contact with the man, "I know we spoke earlier today on the phone, but I wanted to come out here and meet you in person…"

* * *

I leave the office feeling nauseous and slightly lightheaded. Blinking, I glance around the reception area and not seeing Dwight, step outside.

He stands as soon as he sees me. "Well?" he asks nervously and I almost laugh at the seriousness of his voice. "Well," I repeat. "I did it." He throws his arms in the air and I grin, feeling better about this day. He opens his arms in a hug, and I just stare at him before sticking my hand out. He takes it and this time I do laugh.

Maybe Dwight Shrute isn't so bad after all.


End file.
